Sunday, February 27, 2011

So Mojo showed up with an art project for dinner at our house. I had spent the day nursing a migraine in bed and had little motivation for cooking...this was just the antidote. She arrived with a plate of julienned vegetables and several packages of fresh fish.

Soon Baba was put to work slicing with a precision only Ronaldo can contribute.

Next, we prepped the fish in an array of aromatics within a parchment heart. Here is halibut prepared with minneola orange slices, green onions, fennel and olive oil.

This is dover sole rolled with a mixture of rapini, garlic, lemons, olive oil and salt.

Here is the next packet of turbo with celery, red peppers, shallots, onion, tarragon, garlic, olive oil and salt.
She also made jumbo shrimp with tomatoes, onions, garlic, lemon, mojo verde and salt with olive oil. We baked them at 400 for 4 minutes and 13 minutes at 375. She reminded me that if we weren't so difficult (both shane and I are on a weird diet) she would have added white wine and pepper to each packet.

Owen was sadly in absence, celebrating his good friend Paloma's birthday and missed out on the culinary adventure.

I contributed a big salad

some roasted brussel sprouts, brown rice and steamed asparagus.

Here are the steaming packets revealed just prior to our gustatory feast.

We finished the evening with baked apples, a couple of Bodhi games and flying with Mojo. It pays to have a chef in the family.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Okay it's official. I have this new mac and I swear it was designed for the sole purpose of making me feel like an utter and complete moron. I try to maintain my composure when I can't remember ever making the various passwords each system and program keeps impatiently asking for or when I can't contact anyone with significant savvy without being redirected to online service. Hello, if I weren't already fumbling with the whole online service I would have no need to wait long minutes in phone ques listening to music I would never otherwise subject my auditory appendages to. I want to take the screen by the shoulders and shake some sense into its sleek lined, techno touting, imac irritating, software. Alas, it stares back at me, utterly unfazed by my mounting irritation. I try to remain calm. I take deep breaths and yet I can't help feeling like this machine is an intruder, taking up my precious time in insular activities with the promise of so much more. Technology has become a language within a language, its rapidly evolving vocabulary requires devotional practice or you are hopelessly adrift in a senseless world of "http", "google clouds", "usernames" and "passwords" that could humble even Babel. If I wasn't so dependent on the damn thing (and it didn't cost such a pretty penny) I would pick it up and enthusiastically toss its hardward off a very high building.

Friday, February 18, 2011

My dad had a mini stroke yesterday. He has had them in the past. He didn't call anyone, but spent the day alone in the hospital. He didn't want to "alarm anybody". It was interesting talking to him. When I told him that it matters to me what happens to him, he paused a long time and said, "I guess I don't have alot of self esteem, I never think it matters that much". I understood. Valuing ourself, our authentic self, is essential to championing life and experiencing the rich tapestry of existing as an individuated expression of that life. He reminded me of how important it is to "matter". Not to "someone else", but to ourselves. When we deeply matter to ourselves we are willing to act compassionately at the source. This is the only way to approach others with spaciousness and compassion. We matter in ways we cannot begin to imagine.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Within me there is a pool,
deep and blue.
It calls.
Beneath noisy chatter,
Echoed
within white walls of self.
A whispered voice,
Wordlessly beckons to its edge.
I approach.
Tears flow,
A flood without an ark.
Release.
Unknot this tight web of "me",
stitch by stitch,
holding self together.
Fear,
Retreat from clear waters
To hurried world of "do",
"prove", "achieve", "seek",
Isolated in activity,
Waxen and cold.
I ache to breathe,
Against the armor of "self".
I ache to fall,
Without thought of time,
Into deep waters,
Dissolving in space,
Floating on presence,
Breath breathing breath,
One.

Last night I went to the Denver Art Museum's world premiere of Stacey Steers' new film, Night Hunter. It was an interesting blend of artistic dreamlike images and disturbing sequences. The film left me with tangible themes drawn from the web of unconscious, alluding to reproduction, loss and fear. There is an installation in the fusebox, on the fourth floor in the new wing of the museum, if you are local and interested. The film consists of over 4000 tiny collages made by the artist over a four year period and each second of footage represents no less then 8 collages. Now that is dedication.

The Earth laughs colors on a wide horizon

I am often asked why I do art. Art isn't something I do. Art is like breathing and seeing. Art is a force that gives my life it's perspective and clarifies the limited vantage point of my vision. Art provides the framework, the alphabet if you will, for the personal vocabulary and diction that is uniquely mine. I think the same holds true for all of us. Our creativity, whatever it may be, provides an outlet for our still silent voices, beckoning us on to greater heights and wider horizons. Coaxing and teasing out the greatness from the rubble and providing a foundation on which to stand, to peer out, to witness the life all around us.